


all of those kings i've anointed

by noah_pascal



Category: Everyman HYBRID
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety about Death, Birth, Breastfeeding, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Forced Pregnancy, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Humiliation, Internalized Transphobia, Menstruation, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Beta Read, References to Miscarriage, Self-Harm, Solitary Confinement, Trans Male Character, Trauma Minimization, Victim Blaming, past transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 14:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14834393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noah_pascal/pseuds/noah_pascal
Summary: still shook like a leaf at my sight // Habit chews him up, spits him out, props him up, and names him regent.





	1. if you lower yourself into darkness

**Author's Note:**

> whoops i tripped fell face first back into this fandom and wrote some shit on the way down to emh hell where i belong.
> 
> there are a chunk of content warnings on this dumpster fire already, and there will be additional warnings in some chapters’ notes. there are some fairly graphic descriptions of menstruation and birth (blood and amniotic fluid talk), and some non-graphic references to urine, vomit, and diaper changes. ~it’s the miracle of life~
> 
> self-harm tag is for picking and biting at skin, punching, and head slamming.
> 
> lyrics used in the titles and description are from “zaytoun” by dry the river
> 
> and finally, nothing in this fic should be taken as fact or advice. now let’s get on with it.

Vin wouldn't say Evan slams the wine bottle in front of him, but he does put it down with enough force to rattle everything else on the table. 

“If you think you’re spending New Year’s Eve playing with your laptop all night, you better think again.” He’s holding a matching wine bottle in his left hand and the TV remote in his armpit. “We’re not missing any more of The Twilight Zone to video editing.”

Vin isn’t sure if the sound he makes is a scoff or a laugh and says, “Our lives are The Twilight Zone,” but he shuts the laptop and wipes his hand down his face.

“Are you telling me you don’t want to watch Shatner scream about a gremlin because we’re locked in an apartment?" He takes the remote in his hand and points it at Vin, continuing, "Because, I tell ya, I don’t think there's a better time for it.” He flops hard and bounces on the couch, arms spread wide, hands clutching his wine and remote. He extends his arm fully, closes one eye—like he’s going to shoot the TV on—and presses the power button. The cable doesn’t turn on, and he turns to Vin. “Is it on the right thing for TV?”

It reminds him so strongly of days when they’d set up for mutliplayer campaigns that he doesn’t have the heart to remind him that Vin was yelling at gremlins shuffling around the house a few months ago.

Vin pushes himself up from the couch. “You know damn well it’s not.” He presses the button to turn the input back to cable and walks across the room to the kitchen. “And you bring wine but forget the corkscrew. What the hell, man,” he says, picking through the drawers.

“Sorry, I was in a hurry. I wanna be drunk before Dead Man’s Shoes comes on.”

He comes back with the corkscrew, astonishment on his face. “Did you honestly memorize the whole lineup?”

“No, just enough to know I want to be drunk in time for gangster accents.”

“Well, I do appreciate a man with a plan,” he says, taking Evan’s bottle and popping the cork out. “Better get started. I didn’t memorize the lineup, but it sounds like you don’t have much time to get to _gangster accent_ drunk.”

 

They’re tipsy by the time Bob Wilson gets taken away, then drunk enough to shout _Willoughby_ at the TV, each other, and towards the doors and windows for the benefit of any hooded figures passing by. Evan wiggles his eyebrows at Vin and asks if he’s going his way. They make terrible Hollywood gangster accents for each other, laugh at all of Grandpa’s Martian jokes, cackle at the Venusian’s reveal. Vin quiets down as Norma rations out her water and is asleep before her paintings melt in the apocalyptic heat.

He wakes up alone on the couch to Fitz forecasting Riker’s death and his briefs stuck to his skin with dried blood.

 

He hasn’t bled in years, and he regrets not fully appreciating his body functioning normally. Probably, hopefully, it won't be much of an issue. There’s really not that much blood on him, barely enough to soak through a wad of toilet paper, he thinks, shoving said toilet paper in his underwear. The cramps are hardly noticeable, barely worth the trouble of pressing a pillow against himself.

Evan comes out of the bedroom much later, long after Vin’s collected himself and cleaned up, telling him that he stayed up late, only going to bed after he’d finished his wine and Vin’s, and the paid programming was through. He doesn’t talk to Vin for long before slipping back to bed to sleep off the rest of his hangover, and if Vin’s quiet, he’s being a good, considerate friend, not because he’s practicing his vacant stare in the living room.

 

Vin is absolutely sure of a couple things come early morning when he wakes up to the feeling of being kicked in the gut: he's an idiot, and this is a disaster. It’s like his body’s going to make him pay for all his years of HRT in seven days—or more. Who knows? Not him. His body's changed enough since he was a teenager that he isn't prepared for what it’s turning out, not mentally, not physically. He throws his clothes in the sink to soak while he wipes off his legs. Definitely not physically prepared.

He thinks, digging through the bathroom cabinet, surely to god Habit must have put something in here. Whether it was throwing his _acquired_ women's clothing in Vin's room or holding his medication for ransom, he’s never missed a chance to hassle Vin over his junk before, so finding the plastic bag in the back of the cabinet packed full of the pinkest, thickest napkins Vin’s ever had the displeasure of seeing this side of the school nurse’s office is a relief and, at the same time, incredibly annoying.

Evan’s much more alert today, and Vin spends the day worried he’ll get called out for constantly adjusting how he’s sitting on the bulky lump of rayon or for the noise he makes creatively burying his trash. He doesn’t say anything, even though Vin’s sure Evan catches him grimacing and wincing. Vin doesn't know how else to handle it and keeps playing with footage, pretending he doesn't see Evan's concerned glances.

 

He tries to sleep for as long as his pad will let him, and only when he absolutely cannot wait another minute, does he leave the bedroom. He finds Evan waiting for him, clearing his throat and blocking the bathroom door.

“You’re really worrying me. If you’re sick, you’re sick." He looks over at Vin, hunched over in the bedroom doorway. "Why are you acting so weird?”

“I, uh,” he says. He should have had an excuse ready. He had a stock of them at hand when he was younger—slept wrong, pulled a muscle, school lunch _am I right_ —but as time went on, and he never thought he'd be in this kind of situation again, he must have lost any skill he had at dodging questions. He can't even mask his body language, standing there tensing up again as he feels a clot slide out of him. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Evan frowns, but he steps aside and waves Vin towards the door. “Sure. Don’t mind me.”

Vin can’t stand around. He's sure it can’t hold much more before blood’s running down his leg, but he knows he didn’t need to slam to door so hard.

 

Evan’s waiting, practically right where he left him, turned so he’s in the way of Vin’s planned escape to the kitchen. “What’s your problem?”

Vin wants to say, _My body's going wrong. I can’t talk about this_ , but he looks Evan in the eyes, opens his mouth, and _squeaks_.

Evan’s face falls. “Are you hurt?” He moves closer, and Vin watches Evan notice his tense fingers holding onto the edge of his sleeve and the bulge at his wrist where his dumb ass had shoved the napkin, thinking if he could hide it in the kitchen trash, Evan wouldn’t notice the growing pile in the bathroom. He can’t move faster than Evan, so when his hand darts out for Vin’s forearm, he stands there and lets it happen.

Evan gently turns his arm over so the bulge is facing up, his fingers knocking against it through the shirt. They both freeze at the rustling sound it makes. Vin jerks his arm back too late; he knows Evan recognizes the sound from living so closely with someone whose body was supposed to do this. “You’re on your period? No wonder you’re acting weird." Evan seems unfazed and immediately moves to fix the problem. "Do you hurt? Lay down. I used to do this massage for Steph—”

“Evan, stop!” He does, and he steps away, too, but now Evan's in front of the bedroom door, where Vin is desperate to go instead, just for a moment to calm down. If he could get a minute away from facing this, maybe he could deal with the situation better. He’s tried to keep himself under control, but everything’s moving too fast.

Evan presses him, saying, “Are you gonna let yourself hurt because you don’t like what your body’s doing? It doesn’t have to be this hard.”

Vin feels himself shutting him down. He knows he doesn't deserve him saying, “Evan, just leave me alone,” and walking around him into the bedroom, even if he does close the door without slamming it this time. He curls up on top of the comforter with his shame to keep him company.

 

He opens the door long after the sun’s gone down, but there’s only an empty apartment to apologize to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you didn’t memorize the line up either, the episodes referenced are Nightmare at 20,000 Feet, A Stop at Willoughby, The Hitch-Hiker, Dead Man’s Shoes, Will the Real Martian Please Stand Up?, The Midnight Sun, and The Purple Testament


	2. no point tying a rope ‘round your waist

Vin goes back to bed with his camera to talk to people who can’t hear and can’t help. He talks until the third rolls over to the fourth, then he deletes everything and records five words to say it all instead. He knows it won't be Evan coming back to the apartment, tells himself it's nothing less than what he deserves, and twists and turns the whole night thinking about what Habit will do to him next.

After days spent agonizing over it, he's picked and bit his fingers bloody, flinched at every noise in and outside the apartment, and no one's turned up. Time stretches into a long duality of _trapped_ and _alone_ , and the days turn into a continuous feedback loop telling him he's been left to die in a glorified jail cell. Maybe no one's coming, but he can't stop jumping at the heater kicking on or the vibrations of someone walking up the stairs.

He can't sleep for all the time spent straining to hear, but he spends the days hiding in bed anyway, braced for impact.

 

After a month with no contact, Vin breaks his silence and his stillness.

He tells himself that this is the punishment he was expecting, that he's accepted he’s at Habit’s mercy, even as he pounds frantically against the walls and strikes at the windows and pelts the patio door with books. He shouts through the unsealed gaps around the doors, pulls on their handles, and pries at their hinges. He keeps track of what a life lived violently gets him—nothing but sore throats and stinging fists and fingers.

 

He’s hesitant to stop paying attention for what must be Habit’s imminent return, even though Easter’s come and gone, and wouldn’t that have been a great time for him to come back. There was a grocery run a couple weeks ago where some smart ass brought him _seasonally appropriate_ candy, seemingly to direct his attention to a rabbit-based passion play near fifty years passed, but out of everything he’s lost control of, he refuses to lose control over what he dwells on.

Because he dwells a lot.

Lately, he's agonizing over his changing face, how it's rounding out to a more feminine shape, how he’s breaking out less. He sighs over going through more bleeding, and how it doesn’t seem to make much of a difference to his life when no one’s around to see.

Pointing the camera at the mirror, he asks what kind of man does that make him? If he appreciates not having at least one zit at all times and acknowledges he can barely tell his jaw looks different under his beard. Is anything appreciably different about him if he’s not taking his medication? 

He doesn’t have an answer. All he has is time stretching out in front of him in a quiet apartment.

 

It’s about a month until his birthday, and he can’t conceive living much longer like this, feeling like he’s shifted slightly left of reality, powerless in a one bedroom apartment.

He doesn't have control over what he can hear because the TV, internet, radio—the power—all selectively cut out depending on the mood of his host. He can't choose the food he eats because he'll have to eat all of it by the time more comes. He can't get his body back in line because no one's given him his medication. He can't even control his appearance anymore because someone came in and cut his hair last night, and while they were at it, they gave him a septum piercing he can't take out.

He feels like a cow, and he takes it out on his hide with punches at first, clammy palms twisted into fists and aimed into his arms and legs, beats himself sore and yellow and green. When his body acts out against him, he turns to slamming his head against the walls until one slam connects with the fresh wound in his nose. That's too much, and he goes back to smacking his open hands and fists against his forehead. He'll give himself a reason to be dizzy. If his body wants to give him headaches day after day, he'll make sure there's a reason for it. The walls won't budge, so he'll go at it until _he_ breaks.

 

He’s back in bed where he started, back to the wall, listening now for the rattle of glass and watching for glitches on screens because something else has been paying him visits, coming close and staring at him through the windows, standing far away and watching the whole complex.

He thinks, ridiculously, at least he won’t spend his birthday alone.

Supposing he makes it to twenty-four with all this company hanging around, all it means for him is a quarter of his life has been lost to circumstance. He’ll spend the day tired, miserable, and fearing for his life with the curtains drawn. Same as every other day.


	3. the youth washing off us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Habit-Vinny Rape Scene

Habit shows up in the evening, sometime past sunset, and he almost runs into him creeping out of the bedroom. He's just standing there in front of that tall, thin bookcase that startles him—even after all these months—if he glimpses it out of the corner of his eye. He means to speak, ask him what he wants, but the words stick inside him, and he can’t make himself be the first to act.

“VINNY!”

Vin jumps back, but Habit doesn't move. He stands there facing the bookcase like he's taking in a museum exhibit, for long enough that Vin wonders if he's finally entering psychosis, but after a long minute, he turns to Vin, smiling and adjusting his hat. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

“No,” says Vin.

“Well, the time apart hasn’t done anything for your conversational skills.” He reaches down and raises his hands to Vin, showing him two six-pack beer carriers. “Let’s play video games. I brought you beer.”

Vin stays rooted where he stands, trying to figure out which way the attack’s coming from.

“You know, most people say thank you when they get a birthday gift.” 

Vin’s head tilts down to look at the plain cardboard carriers, to try and see the labels on the dark glass, but the carrier sides are too high to see much.

Habit clears his throat, and Vin looks up again. “Vinny, what do you say when I bring you something nice?”

“You missed my birthday by a week and a half.”

“Okay, no, that’s not what you say, and I didn’t miss your birthday.” Hands full, he gestures at Vin’s face. “Did you forget your new piercing?”

Vin reaches up to play with the retainer. “I woke up with this in May.”

“Yeah, and that means I didn’t miss your birthday. Now, I brought you more presents which you don’t seem to appreciate.” He nods his head towards the TV. “Go turn it on. Let’s play video games.”

He doesn’t want to do much of anything, truth be told, but he wants to push his luck even less. It’s the first time the TV’s been touched in weeks, the first time it's been switched to play games since before New Year’s, and he’s never bothered to put away the fighting game he was playing with Evan. He turns the console on using the controller and turns around to hand it to Habit as he’s popping the cap off a bottle.

Habit takes the controller and gives the beer to Vin. “Here,” he says, “take it. You just need a few in you.”

 

Vin’s downed one beer from some brewery he’s never heard of, and he’s halfway done with another when sweat breaks out on his forehead, and his hands begin to shake. He sets his controller down in his lap.

Habit stops beating his fighter to death to look over at him staring at his lap, and asks him, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He turns his head to look at Habit, and a wave of dizziness hits with no time to recover as a wave of nausea crashes into him. He’s sure if he doesn’t get to a trashcan, he’ll puke on Habit, but when he tries to push himself off the couch, his vision goes black around the edges, and he flops down hard, head lolling back.

“You okay? The beer messing with you?”

He doesn’t have the energy to think through the questions. He just moans.

Habit tells him, “You look sick, Vinny. Let’s get you to bed.”

Habit hefts him up. Vin blacks out.

 

Vin can’t remember what happened. All he knows is his head aches, his whole body is full of pins and needles, and it hurts to breathe. He tries to get a full breath and realizes he went to bed with his shirt and binder on.

The _fuck_ , he hasn’t done that intentionally since he crashed after their "sleep study." He breathes deep again, trying to pay attention to something other than the static in his body when he feels hands touch his bare thighs.

He tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids barely crack, and his eyes roll, refusing to focus through the tiny gap. He thinks he’s saying _no_ , but he only hears himself grunt. He pushes at the hands, but his arms are so weak it’s like he's moving in a dream. He’s left to wriggle on the bed in hopes whoever’s touching him will take the hint and stop.

It doesn’t get through to them because their hand is touching him _there_. He crawls back to get away, but he hits the headboard. He can’t get away, but he has to because their fingers are too big and cold and _in him_.

He tries to open his eyes again, and his eyelids do open, but his vision is blurry. He speaks again and whispers _stop_. He raises his hands, puts them against the person’s head, and manages to push it slightly away. Then they speak.

“Vinny, if you don’t hold still, I’ll make it worse.”

Vin jerks to his left, trying to roll onto the floor, but Habit presses down hard on his hip and digs his fingers _in_ roughly. He shouts, digs his feet into the bed, and straightens his legs to push himself back, but he still doesn’t have the space to move away. 

Habit tuts at him and says, “You’re a real piece of work. What did I just say?” before jamming another finger inside.

Vin yells and twists again. He’d love to stop moving, especially if it meant he couldn’t feel the fingers move inside him, but he _can’t_. The pins and needles hurt so bad he can’t stop kicking his legs, and his hands tear at the sheets, so he doesn’t scratch his skin off. Habit seems unfazed by his thrashing and keeps lecturing him.

“You must have slammed your head against the wall one time too many if you’re still not getting this.”

He takes his fingers out, and Vin sags against the bed before writhing against the sheets, desperate for another sensation to drown out the burning in his skin. He can’t concentrate past the feeling in his skin and how bad his hip’s hurting, but Habit continues his lecture.

“You’re gonna fucking lay right there. You’ve got another lesson to learn today.”

He feels Habit pressing his bare flesh up against him, but he stops there, lets the pressure on his hip up, takes his hands away from Vin’s junk. Vin, through his dizziness and blurred vision and nausea, wishes he were done.

“Vinny, I know you’re not all together right now, so I’m gonna give you another chance. Are you gonna hold still?”

He slides his hands on Vin’s sides in way that’s probably intended to mimic comforting, but Vin can’t appreciate it with Habit rubbing wetness over his skin. Vin forces himself to stop thrashing and let the prickling move through his skin without fighting it. He breathes deep again and tries to hold the position. He can’t hold still, but the sensations are turning into a muted crawling instead of sharp prickling, and he can satisfy his skin by rubbing his legs against the sheets instead of kicking them out to fight the feeling.

“Will you behave?”

Vin squeezes his eyes shut and nods, alternately gripping at the sheets and his own arms.

“You’re gonna learn that you get good things when you behave,” he tells him, before easing himself inside.

He can sort of think through his screaming and cursing that _good things_ are Habit not ramming into him, stopping the digging roughness, not actively trying to make him bleed, and he does feel pathetically grateful he hasn’t made it hurt as much as he could have. He finally starts crying, eyes still clenching shut, so he can’t see how much Habit’s enjoying this.

Habit slips out of him and starts his own cursing, and Vin finally realizes, with utmost clarity, that he has an uncovered dick inside him and what that means for him in his unmedicated condition. He takes gasping breaths and beats the heels of his palms against his forehead. He cries louder thinking about the worst case scenario.

Habit stops inside him to taunt, “Are you not having a good time?”

“No! No! I’m—I could—Please don’t—” He fights the urge to twist around again, scared it will make Habit angrier, but he has to do something to make the anxiety stop. He beats harder against his head.

“Stop that, you dumb piece of shit.” Habit grabs his hands and pins them to his sides. “You could _what_? Go another round?”

He manages to shout, “Pregnant!”

“Oh, Vinster. you know how I feel about children.”

Vin sobs.

“If you want this over sooner, you could beg me,” he offers, moving his hips in a way that makes Vin’s guts squirm.

“No, please,” he says, trying to find a way to position his hips to make the sensations stop.

“I meant beg _for_ it, but I guess you can beg me to stop, too.”

He can’t be blamed for begging. He begs until Habit’s through.

 

Back when his family thought he would grow to be a young woman, they warned him about the men who would hurt him and the tools they’d use. They told him how to keep himself safe and how to make sure bad men picked someone else. They told him to never let himself be alone with boys, never take drinks from them, and never trust them.

He’s broken all the rules they gave him at one point or another. Kept his keys in his pocket instead of his fist, left the pepper spray at home, walked home down unlit streets. He associated with boys, sat in rooms alone with them, accepted cups from them, and nothing happened, like he’d given just enough blood to mark the lintel and posts, and the specter had passed over his house.

But his family kept telling him if it happened, if he couldn’t keep himself safe, if he failed, they’d still love him, but they needed to get him to a hospital to make sure nothing permanent happened. _You understand, sweetheart? Just get home; don’t get cleaned up. We’ll get you taken care of._

He supposes it’s the one rule he hasn’t broken yet. He doesn’t have the energy to roll over; he certainly doesn’t have the energy to be clean.


	4. riderless horses, now free from the cart

He spends days in bed dreaming of other times. He imagines he's laying there with his head in Lexi’s lap, and Evan’s waiting in the other room for him to come play games again. He pretends this is his apartment; he chose every stick of furniture and filled it with food himself, and there, slightly out of frame, are all his friends, and they’ve packed themselves into the kitchen to have some fabulous party.

When he can be bothered to hobble to the bathroom, and the party his mind’s made has gone quiet, he tells himself they’ve only gone out for more drinks, all piled in one car, Steph draped across the laps in the backseat, Jeff blaring the radio. If they’re gone for a while, it’s because they decided, as a challenge, to find the nearest grocery store that sells alcohol, and he’s sure they’ll be back in a few days at the latest.

He’s got himself deep into one of his favorite daydreams, where he’s in Lexi’s bed, and she’s pressed against his back, telling him the phone’s ringing.

 

He’s tired of working himself up over how he handled his one phone call, tired of making himself sick over the footage of Alex. He’s tired of feeling broken and wrong; he's tired in general. He's glanced at the book list Habit sent out, but he’s so worn out that he can’t find it in himself to work with it. He doesn't know if it's the heat or what, but it's like, not even depression sleep. He's genuinely physically exhausted.

When he has energy, he sorts through and edits his footage, but he ends up spending most of that time wondering when he started breaking out again.

 

After the time they blacked out trying to watch a fan-sent DVD, he kind of stopped questioning every weird thing that happened.

Not the awful things, the deaths and disappearances, those have always been bright and bold in his mind—like algae growing larger by the fact they were already there at the surface—but stuff like finding pictures of his friends that predated their existence or someone taping coordinates to his kitchen door. That kind of stuff. He would accept that it happened and use it to cultivate a state of mind that lead to thoughts like, _well, someone’s got to take this rocking horse home might as well be me_. There's been plenty of that over the years, relatively minor annoyances that melded together into a sort of unusual background hum.

It's so easy to get used to the background hum that it leaves him unprepared for the real shocks, like the _Slender Man_ standing on his porch like a goddamn dog asking to be let in.

He yells, nearly throws the laptop towards the glass, tucks his head towards his chest, but a man can only curl into himself on the couch so long before he realizes nothing’s happening. He’s still there when he unclenches, looming impotently in front of the sliding glass door. Vin flicks at the glass, and nothing happens. He touches his face and finds nothing running out of his orifices. Right now it seems, he can't do anything to him, and Vin’s the one making choices.

He chooses to stare it down and feels powerful.

 

He’s got his underwear halfway down his legs, still acting like he’s a normal person who bothers to change for bed, when he sees brown spotting. This time, instead of being distressed, he’s practically giddy with the knowledge that he isn’t pregnant. He’s bleeding, and he doesn’t have to change. He’ll stay permanently scarred and perpetually hypervigilant, pretending that nothing happened.

He sits down, half-dressed and bare-assed, on the floor and buries his face in his hands, though his arms put uncomfortable pressure against his chest, and scolds himself for how ungrateful he’s been that he’s gotten off easier than the rest of his friends who can’t even feel sorry for themselves anymore.

 

It’s certainly shocking when the couch disappears, but it’s not like it impacts his life much. It’s a matter of pride that he doesn’t react at all. He turns around and goes back to bed.

 

The next day, the air conditioner turns off, and when he leaves the bedroom to check the thermostat, he stumbles over a mess of books on the floor. The whole tiny hallway is flooded with the contents of the bookcase, which is not where he left it. The furniture in the rest of the house is also not where he left it, and all that's in the living room are small piles of junk and cardboard boxes. Even the nails holding up the enormous painting are gone.

The thermostat won’t respond to anything he does, and it gets so hot and _stinking_ in the apartment that he actually throws up. There's nothing he can do to make it better either. He can't crack a window or make the air circulate. In the desperation of the moment, he considers laying in front of a door and breathing in through the gaps at the floor, but he lays on the bathroom floor instead, until the nausea passes.

When he feels less like garbage, he looks for something to eat, but in heat like this, he'll be damned before he turns on the oven or the stove, but that means his choices are olives or pickles or jelly. He settles for pickles because he can get them in his mouth fastest and stands there eating until his chest burns and tears well up.

He feels so stupid holding a jar of pickles, crying over heartburn. He hasn't cried since _June_ , but he can’t help it. The feelings of gross and awful are too much to fight today.

 

He’s hunched in on himself on the bathroom floor terrified of things he doesn’t understand, so, you know, same shit different room.

After months of nothing, everything’s spiraled out of control so fast. He’s been sleeping on the floor because his bed’s gone the same way as the rest of his furniture, and even though he’s been sick for the past two weeks, not wanting to eat most of the day—then throwing up what little he does eat—his food's run out. The water's been off for days, the pipes won't drain, and he’s never had to pee so much in his whole miserable life.

He'd had his second to last can of soda, and there had maybe been a little over a glass's worth of wine left. He told himself he absolutely deserved it and had gone slightly tipsy on an empty stomach when the walls started rattling, and he panicked and sprinted into the only room with a lock.

He knows he’s being punished for not following orders, for not solving whatever inane puzzle Habit’s set for him, for not _behaving_. He thought he was through caring and ready to die, but now, freezing on the linoleum, he’s not so confident.

He waits until the voices have long gone quiet before creeping out of the bathroom to dig through stacks of books.

 

He sits in a deluge of books, finds an answer, and nothing happens. Nothing’s clearer, and he’s fed up with dealing with the same old shit. He doesn’t want to keep pulling people back into this catastrophe. 

He turns the tap on one more time, and when nothing comes out, he gives up and leaves it on. He crawls into his blanket nest to think about how he’s definitely going to die here.

 

He’s been asleep for a few hours when he wakes up hungry again, headache-y, mouth dry, and accepts that the end is almost in sight, as he goes to the kitchen for the last can of soda.

To find the kitchen’s been refilled. The cupboards are full; the fridge is stocked; there’s fresh fruit sitting in the sink waiting as if he could wash it. That’s the good news. 

The bad news is there’s a box of pregnancy tests sitting on top of the copy of The Stranger he left on the counter.

It’s for his own peace of mind that he takes one more bowl and stomps to the bathroom, though he knows he got his bleed a month ago, and Habit's just fucking with him. As soon as he sees the results, the pipes drain, and he hears the water burst back on. He does the other test anyway.

 

When he looks towards the camera and says he won’t bring anyone else into this, he’s hoping every last drop of sigma radiation and yesterday’s last swallows of wine don’t make him a liar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i only wrote this story to get a dig in at New Jersey's alcohol licensing laws.


	5. now the bulrushes twist into baskets

He can’t do anything but stand by as his body slips further out of his control.

It doesn’t seem real. Sure, he’s exhausted and sick and essentially lives in the bathroom. That doesn’t have to mean he’s pregnant, but his body keeps changing whether he thinks it should or not.

He leaves the camera behind and stands in front of the bathroom mirror looking at the dark veins spreading over his growing chest and tells himself it's not real.

 

The nausea lets up, and the headaches get worse in early October, but he moves the blanket nest out of the dark bedroom and in front of the sunny patio door anyway. He spends his time motionless, so his stretching clothes don't pull at his skin, watching the lights in other apartments turn on and off, and laying cold rags over his itchy and bruised chest.

 

It's a few days off from Thanksgiving, and he’s in the kitchen spacing out on a can of cranberry sauce in the cupboards, reduced to wearing the baggiest sweater and loosest sweats in the closet, not only because he's growing, and there’s a bump now, but because _there’s a bump now_ , and he never wants anything to touch him ever again.

It's like his body is fighting against him. His gums throb and ache, but he hasn't been this hungry since he was a teenager. He's pretty limited on what he can do in his unlimited free time. He can choose between staring at tiny words on paper or tiny words on a screen, but his eyes won't always focus, and his brain operates in a fog—like it is now, gone beyond contemplating the nature of jellied sauce—or maybe he's too tired. He wants to sleep, but when he finds a comfortable position on the floor or propped in the corner, he gets leg cramps or too hot or—it would be enough that he can't forget about his body while he's awake, but he can't even sleep to get away from himself.

The absolute worst part is that he’s pretty sure he can feel it moving with weird swishing motions inside an organ he wanted gone years ago. He refuses to acknowledge it, but that doesn’t stop it.

 

He's never missed his mom as much as he does come Christmas, and he's spending the day submerging as much of himself as he can in hot water in an attempt to _not hurt_. He can't make his stomach stop itching or his back not ache, but it's some hard, red lump on the right side of his chest that has him wishing for five minutes to ask her what he's supposed to do besides put a warm washcloth on it and hope.

He's got himself agitated, wound up over spending Christmas alone, and scared he has some terrible disease when it starts hiccuping, kicking, and generally beating the shit out of him, same as it's been doing for weeks, but today, with everything else, it's more than he can take. He yells, "Fucking stop! Give me a break!" over and over.

It doesn't stop, of course, and he's still spending the day crying, alone and hurting, in a bathtub.

 

He's wrapped up in blankets and propped up against the wall, trying to get his heartburn under control and watching snow come down when his belly tenses to the point of pain. He freezes, mind going frantic with repeated thoughts of _no it won't make it_ until the tightness passes, and he's alone with his questions. What does it mean if he wants it to live, when did he stop wishing it would die, and what would he do if it did die now? He broods over his fearful thoughts as his body returns to its current brand of normal, growing something that's practicing to be an MMA fighter—

He slumps into the wall and looks out at the snow.

 

Each time he turns the computer on, he's inevitably reminded of the anniversary of someone's death, and he's been checking every day to see if the WiFi bars are filled in. Today especially, there's nothing better to do but sit in his corner with the laptop balanced on top of him, stare at the network panel, and ignore how close it is to when Alex was taken.

He shifts focus back to breathing in deeply and slowly. The aches, punches, and sheer size of it take his breath away as much as dread does now. In through his nose and out through his mouth. He can't do anything to change this. In to the count of seven, out to the count of eleven. He's done all he can do.

He's been getting his grocery deliveries, obviously, but he doesn't know how he could take care of an infant with what he has, so he leaves notes on the cupboard doors, the book piles, the floor close enough to where he found the phone ages ago, saying _please, we need_. He begs, but nothing's come.

Later, after he’s sore from sitting in one position for so long, icons come to life, and he reads about how to take care of it and himself, supposing they both make it that far.

 

He's running out of time. If everything works out like it should, he has maybe a week left, and terror has filled him to the brim, ready to run over. He paces around the apartment, cleans on his hands and knees, counts his cans of lentils—anything to forget that no one's come, that this could be the end.

Anxiety’s parceled out his time to individual breaths. In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth. He breathes through the false contractions, his leg cramps, and its squirming. He counts his heartbeats in the kitchen when he makes himself eat, and he measures his breaths all night long when he can't sleep _again_ and walks endless circuits through the rooms.

He turns his focus to a steady in and out and tries to be relieved that, either way, dead or alive, him or it, it'll be over soon.


	6. fought in a sign of peace, burns in the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birth Scene

He wakes up in bright afternoon light to more painful false contractions and a backache that won't ease up no matter how he shifts. He moves around enough that it stops the cramping at least, and he dozes off again in the sunlight. He wakes up not much later to the same twinging feelings and, sighing and grumbling, works his way to standing, complaining more as he gets to his feet because the contraction's already stopped.

He walks around the rooms anyway to stretch out his back and have something to do with his nervous energy besides rearrange food in the kitchen. Several laps later, he feels the cramping restart and tries relaxing again to make this one go away. Sitting in front of the glass door, the contraction dies down while he peers into the neighbors’ windows.

Only to pick back up while he’s deep into staring outside.

He's heaving himself up again when he tells it, “Damn, you’re persistent today,” and pauses on one knee to consider what he just said.

Panic rolls through him, leaving him cold and falling flat on his ass to sit and stare vacantly out the door as the contraction moves through him.

He knows what he's supposed to do now—he took notes. Normal people with normal pregnancies would start timing to be sure, eat something, stay hydrated, walk, sleep, check in with a doctor, but he's stuck in an apartment, trembling on the floor, breathing in slowly in the late March sun.

 

He manages to put a handful of cheese in his mouth, downs water, and doesn’t bother with a timer. He’s sure they’re real and coming consistently, and it’s not like he’s got a doctor to tell. A lightheaded feeling comes up on him thinking about how he’s got to do this alone and how there could well be another death on his conscience by the end of it. Bracing himself against the counter, he breathes slowly again until the fear lessens. He’s got hours left to panic.

The shower curtain comes down to spread across the kitchen floor. Every easy-to-clean towel and blanket is thrown there, too. Then he walks laps over and over until he’s tired enough, thoughts quiet enough, for a last bit of sleep.

 

He wakes from his nap after nightfall, stretched out in front of the patio door, and it might be the endorphins working him over, but the night's taken on a dreamy quality. He can't see clearly into the darkness outside the glass door, and the lights in the neighboring apartments are so bright they're like stars. The contractions have him gritting his teeth and sucking his breaths, but when the muscles finally release, he feels so beautifully floaty, almost delirious. 

It's a pain to force himself out of his ethereal frame of mind to head to the bathroom, but he’s so sweaty that it feels amazing to take his undone button-up off and lean back against the tank. He really wants a cool shower, but his nerves are already so overworked that he doesn't think he could handle it. Instead, he sits there until his legs want to go numb before taking up his pacing without bothering to redress.

 

He’s hunched over the counter staring at the stove clock at 1AM, fists balled and blowing out his breaths. His back hurts so bad, and he’s so worn out that when he feels liquid dripping out of him, he doesn't care if it’s his water finally breaking or if it’s only piss. He figures it must be _rupture_ because the cramping pain turns sharp and stinging against him. He sags again as the pain releases, laying his head down on the cool counter, wondering how much longer.

 

It’s past four in the morning, and he’s exhausted, laid out, crying and curled up on his side. Long past standing and walking his anxiety off, he’s stuck folded around his belly, alternating hot and sweaty and chilled shivering, panting and pressing his head to the cool metal of the stove.

He was not made for this; there’s no way he can do this by himself. If it could find the right way to step, his mind would walk out of his head and leave them both on the floor. He's so scared, and he’s pretty sure they’re both gonna die.

 

He’s been blowing-not-pushing for hours, and he's lost track of time hoping his body would take over, or his mind would fully exit the scene. He sobs sticking his fingers inside himself to get an idea of where its head is because the pressure is worse than he let himself imagine. His fingers prove to him what he wouldn't accept otherwise, that he can't put it off any more, this time for real, can’t stall any longer.

He pulls himself to a squat, chin to chest, balancing against the cabinets, and starts. 

 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been at this, but he doesn’t believe it will ever end, even as fluid drains out of him, even as he gags when its head comes free and retches taking one hand away from gripping into the sink to check around its neck for the cord.

The moment when both shoulders come free is unlike anything he's ever experienced. Being able to come down on his knees to pull her from his body, more fluid spilling out of him as he does, is relief incomparable to anything else. Even the worry over his unsteady movements can't dull how relieved he is to have succeeded as he brings her blood-streaked body against his to peel the caul off her face. He repeats _not dead not dead_ as he rubs her skin, and she starts to cry. 

He's never been this bone-weary in his life, and, with her half-draped in a towel and balanced in his left arm, he massages down his belly, desperate to get the rest out so he can ease back to the floor and close his eyes.

 

Vin snaps out of his drowsing sleep to see one of Habit’s camera gremlins drop a laundry basket of crap on the other side of the room, and then shuffle over to look down on them, him ragged and worn through on his back and oozing blood on the kitchen floor, her covered and sleeping on his chest. He can't find it in himself to do anything but lay there, grunting out more blood while it watches and takes it all back to Habit.


	7. something might grow there again

Vin finds himself shockingly and pitifully grateful in the days after, when he expected to be bitter and withdrawn. Thankful that she spends most of her time asleep, that she sets a schedule, that Habit didn't forget them.

Habit gave them the majority of what he asked for. They have diaper supplies, blankets, and a tiny waterproof mattress. She even has some clothes—mainly sleeping gowns she has room to grow in—and a few pairs of socks.

There aren't any bottles though, but the milk comes in fine.

He can't believe he was so naive to think that maybe birth was significant enough to get him let out of the apartment or that he'd get his body back after he got her out of it. He's ashamed of letting himself dream that he was penned in here to be the reluctant baby-sitter of Habit's next _experiment_ , that he wouldn't have to keep destroying himself for Habit’s enjoyment. Of all the times Habit's asked him to choose to hurt himself, _breastfeeding_ hangs on him heavily by the sheer repetition laying out in front of him.

She wants fed twelve times a day—essentially a continuous loop—and consciously deciding to pick her up and bring her close to his bare skin makes his hands shake. Making that choice is nearly too much for him, and he finds himself following her lead instead. Her first morning, she pulled herself up and latched without help, while he was delirious and bleeding on the linoleum, so he lets her keep on that way and tries to trust her the way she trusts him.

 

She sleeps six hours straight at the beginning of May, and he lets her. He figures she'll be exceptionally grumpy when she wakes up, and he'll get sore in the mean time, but she'll be okay waiting, and he's so tired.

He can't remember when he slept longer than an hour at a time. Falling asleep in his own blanket pile or dosing off with his head on her mattress, it's the same result: jolting awake too soon because it's almost time for her to be up again, or it’s another nightmare where he can’t give her enough or he forgets her entirely, and she wastes away, both of them crying in the dark apartment.

Even though Vin knows she's fine. She's gaining weight; she goes through enough diapers. She's fine. She's an absolutely normal infant, sleepy and hungry and mostly content to stare at his face for her play time. She doesn't growl or grow fangs or anything of the other nonsensical things he thought might happen. She's just an average baby who gets mad about tummy time and seems vaguely interested in hearing his voice. She's not the monster.

By the middle of May, she gives him her first real smiles and coos _ooh-ooh-ooh_ not long after. When he tells her he won't leave her, that he'll do better protecting her, her dark eyes really focus on him, and he doesn't feel so alone.

 

It’s amazing, humbling, watching her smile and recognize him. He makes her laugh and grab plush toys and measuring spoons. She loves to stick her tongue out and babble important baby business, but it doesn't make it any easier when he thinks about last year.

To use technical language, June is a fucking shitty hell month, and each moment he remembers turning twenty-four is like choking down glass. His guts squirm, and he thinks again and again there's no way he can manage. He considers turning the camera on for the first time in ages and telling it, but he hasn't been able to say the words or stand the thought that someone might see the video and tell him was complaining too much or exaggerating or he _wanted it_.

He’d had some ambiguous plan to space out for the last half of the month, but it's impossible when he's in a nearly constant state of touch with his baby, so he shifts all his attention to her. 

They read a lot, not that there's anything child appropriate in the stacks he has around, but she doesn't care they read about witchcraft or autobiographical searches for Atlantis rather than petting fuzzy pictures of farm animals. They walk even more through the rooms, round and round, until she falls asleep and wakes up again in his arms. They sit and stare outside, and Vin names everything he can see.

Nothing he does stops him waking her up with his crying as often as she wakes him with hers.

 

She eats the porridge he cooks for her and the bananas he mashes for her, rolls from her tummy to her back. She smears carrots all over her face and grabs for the spoon he’s _trying_ to feed her with. She sits by herself and shows him all the drool she makes with her first tooth coming in. She’s perfect, and it kills him that he still can’t say she was worth the pain.

 

The last thing he remembers is playing pat-a-cake with his daughter and watching her sort of figure out how to clap her own hands as he comes to in the trunk of a car, staring out at pine barrens. Alone.

 

Vin regains consciousness again, this time tied up and remembering a chase through the woods. His vision's gone unfocused, his ears stuffed, but he knows Habit's there, and his baby isn't.

He has a moment to hope she's already dead and not suffering before Habit starts shouting _Hair_ lyrics at him, and, figuring he's well and truly alone now, with nothing left to loose but his life, he starts telling Habit exactly what he thinks of him.

"I've got NO ONE—I'm _done_ , you FUCK let me go—this time I'm—"

Habit cuts him off with, “She’s cute, Vin. It’s proof we do good work together," and, while Vin's stunned quiet at hearing what’s happened to him described as _partnership_ , launches into a grand speech about how _smart_ and _important_ Vin is and lays out some vague plan about stars and guidance and fighting the _other_ bane of Vin's existence all the while taking large, striding steps around him.

He stops his dramatic pacing, spreading his arms wide over Vin, offering, “I’ll take you back into my good graces, and she can come, too. In fact, she’s already there waiting for you. Don’t you want to see her?” There’s a beat of silence before Habit backs away and asks, “What did you name her anyway?”

“I haven’t.”

Habit turns himself away and adjusts his hat, “Oh, were you waiting on my input on the matter? You don’t call her Lexi, didn’t already name her Stephanie or Jessie or whatever Evan named the last one?” Holding his chin, he asks, “Do you remember _her_ name, by the way?”

Vin, overwhelmingly confused, tells him, “No. I don’t.” 

“Oh well, it doesn’t really matter, does it," he says and turns back around to start in on him again. "No more of your independence shit," he counts off on his fingers. "You do exactly what I tell you. You don’t argue with me."

His voice slips into multilayers as he leans in close to say, "And I hope you learned how to be good, or I'll make sure we have a repeat performance of the last time someone had a baby.”

Vin's body goes rigid, and his mind spins him a scenario similar to now, with Habit looming over him incapacitated with his daughter bloody in his arms, and he forces himself to say as casually as possible, “All right, I’m on board. So, uh, you can untie me, and we’ll get out of here.” 

“Not yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Borrowed dialogue from “Two thousand three hundred ninety-five”


	8. the stone inside your heart

If only he could adjust as well as she has. 

She’s thrilled with eating new jarred foods, sleeping high off the ground, and wearing pretty, new clothes. Vin is suspicious, initially reluctant, wary of having so much. She babbles through her waking hours at anyone who crosses her path, doesn’t matter if it’s him, Habit, or Habit’s gremlins. Vin has trouble talking to her sometimes, much less addressing anyone or anything else. Any chance she gets, she’ll crawl to the dog statue to get at its hat. Vin's constantly startled at how little the house has changed. She seemingly doesn’t feel stress. Vin is awash in it.

He wakes up at night in his old room, forgetting when it is, thinking he dreamed the past two years. He breathes easier for that first second, then he’ll hear her rustle next to him, and guilt bears down weighty in his chest. Considering himself her father is absurd if he can be happy thinking she's gone.

He returns to pacing through the house, walks the length of the upstairs hallway, and lets the creaks from the wood roll over him. Everything's unnervingly the same, and his body tells him it’s normal, that this is how it's supposed to be, but he's boiling over inside. He’s consumed with the thought of seeing Habit everyday again, unsure of how he's supposed to act, but Habit hasn't been back in days, and Vin doesn't know if he'll ever be ready for the demands he has to meet.

 

On Halloween morning, he wakes up and looks over to see if she's stirring around, but she’s not there. The co-sleeper’s empty, and it doesn't look like she managed to crawl out and over him to anywhere in sight.

He goes cold and flails upright, knocking her bed to the side to run out of their room, in pajama pants and nothing else, shouting _where are you where are you_ into open doorways, and he's halfway slipped down the stairs before Habit answers him.

“She’s down here with me,” he calls from the living room, and Vin watches from the landing as he comes towards the entryway holding her, visibly sticky in her nightclothes, trying to fit her whole hand in her mouth. “This might be easier if you gave her a name.” He looks at Vin, half-dressed and panting from fear. “What the hell, man. Take a shower. Go put a shirt on—a Halloween-y shirt.” He shakes his head and walks away, down the hallway towards the kitchen, before Vin can argue.

 

He comes downstairs in the Halloween-y-est he could do, a black shirt and orange-ish pants, and sees Habit coming back out of the kitchen hallway, looking genuinely pleased, holding a lump of brown fur with tangles of black limbs on either side. For the second time today, Habit finds him confused and gawking on the landing.

“Vinny, look at her! She's a tarantula.” He turns back to the baby and makes an exaggerated, clacking bite.

Vin is bewildered by what he sees, but comes closer and, yes, that furry, squealing lump is in fact his daughter. There are four glittering red eyes on the top of her head, there might be fangs hanging over her face, and the only thing he can say is, “That’s horrifying.” 

“What, she’s a little bit creepy, so you can’t love her?” says Habit, mockingly offended.

He sighs, unbalanced by Habit's energy. “I didn’t say that. Where did you even get a spider costume?” He walks closer and reaches for her to pull her face towards him. She turns her fuzzy, eye-covered head around with his hand and says _da-da_.

Habit grins and adjusts her higher in his arms. “Oh, that’s cute. You gonna teach her to say ‘Habby,’ too?”

Vin frowns at him and takes his surprisingly large spider, careful not to put his hands on Habit, and once he has her back tells her, "What a smart spider girl. You don't miss anything with all those pretty eyes." He wants to coax her to repeat it, but banging starts upstairs, startling him, and he whips his face away to stare at the ceiling.

"Ignore it. We'll deal with it later." Vin turns back to Habit, who’s tapping his foot and shifting back and forth. He huffs out, “Come on," and walks into the living room. "I want you to film her crawling with that on. It looks weird as hell.”

Vin follows, looking over his shoulder.

 

Habit strikes out and grabs him by the back of his arm, and Vin drops the highchair's tray as he's hauled out of the kitchen, looking back at his baby strapped in her seat.

"You don't tell me to wait when I ask you to do something," he says dragging Vin towards and up the stairs. "That's not how this works, dumbass."

"We were almost done—" he tries to explain, but stumbles and falls hard on his knees at the top of the stairs. He reaches out to push himself up with his right hand, but Habit's wrenches his arm again, and he goes unbalanced, sliding towards the bedroom on his left.

Habit throws Vin's arm down and stomps behind him to drag him upright. He says, "You're just not getting it, Vinny," before pushing him through the bedroom and into the attic.

 

Vin does as Habit asks, sits in front of the tree to show he’s still alive to anyone who still cares, and wishes them a merry Christmas.

He's having trouble concentrating, sitting in front of the camera again, can't think past his last Christmas with Evan, spilling their guilt to each other and avoiding their questions, and how that means it's been almost two years since he's seen him. 

He gives his halting explanations, glancing to the side at her drooling on her teether in her walker, dangerously close to noticing the dog statue and bound to cause a commotion about it when she realizes she's trapped in the living room. He goes quiet again thinking about the Christmas Steph told them she was pregnant, thinking about the Christmas he learned they died, thinking about _tradition_.

He wants to end the video quick, but he's not sure if there's anything else to say. All he’s accomplished is upsetting himself, and if he keeps spacing out, he won't have much longer before she stops caring about chewing and starts shrieking and generally being a holy terror.

As if she were waiting for her cue, she takes off in a hurry, wheels clattering over the floor, running into the step up into the entryway.

Vin turns the camera off and goes to her. She doesn't fuss as he takes her out of the walker and holds her. She babbles and smears her spit-covered hands over every inch of him she can reach, and he remembers how he spent last Christmas yelling at her to stop kicking him.

He can wait to finish what he has to say in an hour or so, after he puts her to bed.


	9. our histories and futures entwined

Vin has Little Girl parked in her highchair, next to the desk in the kitchen they use as a catch-all, letting her enjoy feeding herself cereal and strawberry pieces, waiting until later to feed her spoonfuls of yogurt. The internet’s connected today, and he’s on his phone looking up cake recipes, so she has a good one to smash on her birthday in a week and a half. She crawled out of the co-sleeper and onto his chest this morning and fell back asleep listening to his heartbeat, so it’s been a pretty good morning all things considered. You know, if you forget the rain.

It’s been raining heavily for days. Like, standing water in the street and yard—we’ve had nearly a season's worth of rain in a week—we should build an ark—kind of rain. They’ve passed the monthly average already, and the forecasters are predicting record breaking totals today. It might be a good morning inside, but Vin's brain won't stop repeating _flood shall wash away_ , and he scrolls past dozens and dozens of cake pictures, too agitated to pay attention to the benefits of using applesauce over butter. 

He’s been keeping the blinds and curtains shut, quickly turning her face away from the windows as they go past, afraid he’ll be out there. Not out of fear for her safety exactly because Habit's always kept it out of his property—not even letting him in to fuck with Vin—but because he never wants her to see it; he never wants to see his daughter spilling syrup and ash from her mouth.

Vin hears the front door open and close, sits up from where he slumped against the desk, and puts his phone away as Little Girl bounces and chants _hi hi hi_.

Habit plods into the kitchen, addressing her first, “Look at you getting so big. Are you almost ready to go hunting with Habit?” He stands next to her highchair and pets her like he would a cat, gets her little bit of hair wet. She squeals and baby talks to him, excited for his attention. She said his name the first time a couple weeks ago, and Habit's acted thrilled about it; Vin has not.

He crosses his arms in an attempt to look unimpressed. “Please stop telling her she’s going urban bear hunting.”

“Then stop putting her in these bear pajamas," Habit says, picking at the slack in her shirt. "Why don’t you put her in her rabbit romper?” 

Vin opens and closes his mouth before letting out a keening, “ _Really_?” that echoes in the kitchen.

“You’re too easy.” Habit stops touching Little Girl, rests his hands on the back of her highchair. “You eat yet?”

“No.” He hadn’t even take a handful of cereal out for himself when he laid it out on her tray. He was focusing on rustling the plastic louder than the rain picking up.

“Then get out of here. I’m making breakfast," he says and turns away to dig through the cupboards.

Thankful to get away from the clatter of metal and glass, he unhooks her from her chair and, with her in his left and her yogurt in his right, takes them to the living room. He wants to put her in his lap and feed her like he used to do back when, before she had a highchair or her own dishes and flatware, but Habit’s back, and Vin doesn’t know how mad he'd be when she inevitably grabs for the spoon and flings her food on the couch, so he puts her in her walker, so he can smear the yogurt on her himself.

 

She’s eaten the better part of her dish before Habit comes out of the kitchen, sets plates of eggs and toast on the round table, and orders Vin over.

Vin comes over immediately and moves Little Girl closer to the table, too.

Habit slides the plate—with fork partially buried under the food—across the table. “Eat it. You've got shit to do.” 

Vin sits, but Habit doesn't acknowledge him further, just leaves and comes back with mugs of coffee.

Vin looks back, and she’s bouncing in her walker, making grabby hands, saying _da-ee_. “Are you still hungry, baby?" He crumbles some egg for her on her tray since he can at least vacuum that up when she drops it on the floor. “What are you having me do?”

“Finish it, then we’ll talk.”

 

Vin takes the cups and plates to the kitchen and dumps them in the sink. He doesn't understand why Habit never put a full set of curtains up, and Vin stands there looking at the raindrops connect and run down the glass. A strange, sick sensation moves through him as he stares out the window, and he hangs his head.

"Vinny!"

He rubs at his temples walking down the hallway and stumbles stepping down into the living room. He sits down hard on the couch and looks at his baby smushing her egg bits around the tray.

"I'm talking to you."

He gets dizzy snapping his head back to focus on Habit, who's draped himself over his chair, one arm over the back, one arm reaching across the table for nothing.

Habit says, “It's real easy. You have company coming over tonight, and I want your camera on the whole time. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Habit. Camera on," he says, praying he remembers because he keeps closing his eyes, half out of the conversation.

“Good! Then that's it. Like I said, real easy.”

Vin rests his head against the back of the couch. Maybe he hasn't been upset about the rain—maybe he's getting sick. He doesn’t understand what’s wrong, but he knows he's too hot, and when he reaches one shaking hand up to undo a button on his shirt, he opens his eyes enough to see Habit and realizes he’s felt like this before. 

He wonders if the look on his face shows how pained and gutted he really feels, or if his muscles are too weak now to pull it together, as he groans out, “ _Why_?” 

Habit rolls his eyes and stands up. “Don’t worry about it. I just need you down until your friend comes over.”

Little Girl starts whining in her seat, and Habit's the one to pick her up and put her on his hip as his vision blurs.

“Go to sleep, Vinny. I’ll take you upstairs later.”

 

Vin wakes up in a room not his own, slumped in a corner, with his toes and fingers tingling. 

He goes numb and lightheaded, panting on the floor before he realizes he’s not in pain anywhere except in his chest. He’s not naked or hurting or wet and gross. He just wants some water and a piss. 

Pushing himself to standing reminds him his hands are empty, and he tears around for the camera. His mind’s screaming _what are you doing where is your daughter_ , but if he doesn't find it, he may as well let himself into the attic and wait. 

Vin finds the camera across the room, pointed at the corner, already on, and he moves to the doorway to go find Little Girl—

And finds Evan counting in the hallway instead.

 

Vin opens the bathroom door to see Evan trembling in front of his closed door with his crying baby on the other side. 

“Don’t you want to see her?” He raises his hand to touch Evan's shoulder, but lets it fall back to his side. “It’s okay if you don’t, but I need to get her. I don’t know what Habit’s done with her all day.”

Evan's face crumbles. Vin barely hears the quiet _okay_ as he steps away from the door.

Vin opens the door, fear running him through every horrible thing he can imagine, but she looks okay. Whole. She’s crying, red-faced and angry, standing in her co-sleeper Habit’s turned back into a bassinet, in those damn rabbit footie pajamas.

"Oh, baby," he says setting the camera down on the nearest shelf, pushing the animal skull out of the way. "It's okay. I'm sorry." He takes her into his arms, trying to calm her down. He rocks her and rubs her back until her cries trail off into sniffles against his neck, seemingly no more upset than any other time she’s woken up alone.

He looks back, and Evan’s standing outside of the door, head down.

“Evan." His head jerks up, and Vin wants to tell him _it's okay_ , too, and have it be true and as easy to fix as Little Girl's problems. He doesn't know what to say or where Evan is, if he's thinking about 2015 or 2012, if he's seeing someone else while looking at them.

Instead of comfort, he offers, "Do you want to pick out something for her to wear? I need to change her," and lays her down on the mat. He sets to wrestling her out of her PJ's and cleaning her up and watches Evan tentatively go through her growing wardrobe. 

Habit brings her things that are covered in dangerous animals: crocodiles, bears, hippos, dinosaurs—the one exception being the rabbit romper. She has a few clothes that showed up with the gremlins: dresses with flowers or feathers around the hem, plain basics, a t-shirt with a space shuttle.

Evan picks out the newest clothing to show up at the house—like he reached in her drawer and pulled out the first thing he touched—a dark green dress he was wanting her to wear on her birthday. Evan hands him the dress and the pair of leggings wrapped up in it, and Vin accepts them with a smile.

“Look what Evan picked for you. Pretty girl gets dressed up,” he says, and she knows the word pretty; she repeats it. 

Evan’s grimacing, voice thick. “Should I, uh, have picked out something else?" He looks towards the windows. "Is—I don't know what time it is. Is she going back to bed?” 

Vin checks the clock. It says two; there's no AM or PM, but it seems like the darkness through the blinds is night, not clouds, and he can't hear rain. "She's so used to waking up and being fed; I don't think I could get her to go back down without giving her something," he says, pulling her leggings on. "Besides, I, uh, I want you to meet each other." He goes red at how juvenile he sounds saying it, like they're really going to get to know each other, like Evan hasn't been tormented with the thought of her for months.

Evan doesn't respond. He watches Vin pull her arms through the sleeves and smooth down the black fluff on her head.

"She might confuse you for Habit." He reaches into the drawer behind him for a pair of socks as Little Girl crawls away. "God only knows what they've been doing while I was knocked out." He hauls her back to him and works the socks on her feet.

From where he's standing, off to the right, Evan whispers, “What did you name her?”

“I haven’t." Vin stands, picks her up. "I wanted to talk to you first.”

Evan turns his face away, looks down again, but he can see his features twisting together.

He doesn't know how to make it better, decides to put it off for a few more minutes. “Let’s go downstairs. We can talk about it while I see if she wants food," he says, pretending he's more confident than he is, and leads the way out the door.

 

He had sincerely hoped he could distract her with berries or cucumber sticks or something, but not even halfway down the stairs, she'd started pulling at his shirt, fussing about it.

He settles red-faced onto the couch and unbuttons his shirt enough that she can get to his chest, but not enough for Evan to see most of the shallow gouges her growing left on his skin, and says, "I know it's weird; just, please don't stare."

Evan shuffles his feet on the step, doesn't move into the living room. "It's not weird. Steph—" He cuts himself off, looking struck.

It's an old worn path for Vin, the guilt of how he left Evan standing alone, unable to talk about what was happening. While can't be sure where Evan is, Vin reaches out to meet him. "You can talk about her. I won't freak out." He adjusts her across his lap and looks ahead so he can't see if Evan's staring or not. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

Evan walks past them to the other end of the couch, setting Vin's camera on the table, and drops down. He gets a pinched look on his face again, and says, "It's just—it hurt Steph to do that." He dutifully turns his head forward, too.

Well, he can't say it doesn't hurt sometimes, especially with more teeth coming in, but what's that going to do except upset Evan? What could he say that wouldn't hurt Evan? He unclasps her hand where she's pulling at his buttons, holds it in his. He settles for, "You get used to it," but it still makes him feel like dirt because he doesn't know how long Steph was even given to _get used to it_ before Habit took it all away.

"Why didn't you name her?"

Vin forces himself to say, “I don’t remember what you and Steph named your daughter."

Evan sucks in his breath, drops his head, and doesn't offer up a name.

Vin tips his head back and sucks at his lip. "I've been thinking about it though. I want to name her Reina."

Evan nods.

"No, Evan, I want to know what you think." 

"I think it's a great name," he says staring at his hands.

Vin blows out his breath and tries again. "I mean, I want you to help name her."

Evan looks up and stares at the back of her head.

There is nothing he can do that will make this better. There are no words left that won't hurt Evan. His life is a minefield that Vin couldn't navigate years ago when the wounds were fresh and visible, but if he can't tread delicately across it, he'll stand at the edge and shout. Before he can think better of it, Vin says, "I swear, if you don't suggest something for her middle name, I'll name her Gustava."

Evan's eyes flick to Vin, "No."

"Oh, I'll do it." He looks down at her and says with heavy cheer, "Don't you think that's good name, Little Girl?"

Evan looks like he can't believe what he's hearing. His eyes dart to her and then back to Vin.

Vin lets go of her hand to lift his palm up. "I guess that's what we're naming you since he doesn't want to help."

"Vin," he says softly, "are you serious?"

"I seriously want you to pick a name. Whatever you want. It's not like there's—" he cuts himself off with a laugh, imagining if gremlins had showed up that morning with paperwork to fill out. "It's not like there's a birth certificate."

Evan takes a deep breath and looks at her again. He's silent for so long she finishes with one side and goes to the other, sitting facing Vin instead of across his legs, leaving him more exposed. He tries to cover up the best he can, settles for letting her hold the edges of his shirt up, but Evan can see her face again this way, and Vin doesn't bother asking him to stop staring.

He looks embarrassed to say what he wants, but he whispers, "Arcadia," and doesn't take it back once it's out.

Vin looks down at her in his arms. "Reina Arcadia? We might need a middle name for your middle name." He looks at Evan. "Do you have another suggestion in you?" But Evan looks like he's dredged the depths and come up exhausted, red-eyed and sagging against the couch.

He brushes her hair back, and says, "Then how about Jane." Evan doesn't jump in disagreeing, but his forehead wrinkles like he might have objections to giving her a name too close to his. Vin waits and glances at him again, but no protest comes. "I guess it's Jane. Reina Jane Arcadia is a big name for a little girl," he tells her as he takes her hands to make her stop flapping his shirt around.

It sounds like Evan's smothering _chuckles_ , and when Vin looks at him, he presses his lips together, glances at the camera, then says, "I'm Reina Everyman and this—" but Vin drowns out the rest of his sentence in startled laughter.

 

Vin keeps her close to his skin, hoping she'll get tired again, and she does. Like all the times he’s had to coax her to sleep again when she’s been too excited at being able to stand or crawl or like every time she was hurting with a tooth about to come through. He works around her to button his shirt and lets her slump against him in his lap.

Now there are no distractions between him and Ev. Nothing to focus on but each other and the gulf between them.

Vin desperately wishes they could be like they were at Christmas. Not that they were good then, but better than this. He outstretches his hand one more time, raising his arm along the back of the couch. "Please?" he says, gesturing for Evan to move down the couch. "It's so good to touch someone who hasn't hurt me."

"He hurt you though," he says. "He hurt you using me."

Vin doesn't argue, keeps his arm raised until Evan comes close and leans into his side. "He hurt us both, Ev," he says, and feels Evan's tears where his daughter left hers an hour ago.


	10. turning the water to wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE WARNING for Child Murder, Drowning/Asphyxiation, and Rape Threats

Vin wakes up downstairs in low light, curled against the back of the couch with Reina laid out on her back across the cushions. Evan’s gone, and his head is stuffed full of the fuzz of two hours of sleep and the white noise of rain. He pulls himself up on his knees and leans over the back of the couch to peek between the slats, wants to see how far the rain's up in the yard, but a hand grips his arm and jerks him back.

“Get her cleaned up. We're leaving,” he says and just fucking walks out of the room before Vin has the time to do more than turn around.

There's static between his ears as he tries parsing the commands—go _where_? _them_?—but Habit's made it abundantly clear that it isn't his place to think, so Vin scoops her off the couch as gently as possible and takes them to the downstairs bathroom, listening to him stomp around upstairs. She stirs around as he fixes her leggings and socks, but she's still pretty quiet when Habit meets them by the door holding shoes and a jacket far too large for himself, both of which he throws at Vin's feet. 

"Give her here, and put them on."

Vin hands her over, setting her in Habit's arms, and bends over for the coat. He feels like he's ten steps behind what's happening. He's probably not moving as slow as he thinks he is putting shoes on, mainly because Habit isn't berating him, but he’s sure he's spending too much time staring at the rain coming down as he says, “Reina doesn’t have a coat.” 

Habit sets her back in Vin's arms. “Put her in yours." He opens the door and points at nothing in particular, just out, and says, "Get in the car.”

He wants to argue that she doesn't have shoes either, that he hasn't had enough time to get them ready, but Vin wraps the jacket around her and walks through the door. As far as he knows, Reina's never been outside a day in her life. “What am I supposed to do with her?" he asks, looking to Habit. "There’s no car seat.”

Habits pushes him towards the car. “You did so good not complaining about being drugged or asking where we’re going, but you’re questioning me over a fucking car seat. Like I’m gonna let the cops see us," he says in a sing-song mocking way. "Get in the car.” He opens the driver's side and stands there gesturing _come on come on_ at Vin over the roof.

Vin clutches Reina close and gets in the car.

 

They've been in a silent car, save for Reina fully waking up and asking to be fed, for about an hour, first driving east, then heading steadily south. They're going to have an angry baby soon if Habit doesn't let Vin run into gas station or something, and he hasn't shown any signs of them being close to wherever they're going, hasn't spoken further to Vin or acknowledged Reina trying to get his attention.

Reina's starting to complain about no solid breakfast when Habit takes the car off the highway. The sun's in their eyes again, but Vin can clearly see they're in the pine barrens.

He wants to keep his mouth shut; he doesn't want to make this worse, but he's so confused, so—so _everything_. He's reeling from Evan being snatched away, listening to Reina's loud fussing, dealing with the hangover or _whatever_ you say when you get mega-dosed with trazodone, and he can't keep his mouth shut. He pops off with, “What are we doing here exactly? Are you planning to chase me through the woods again?” 

Habit jerks the car to the left down another road, going farther away from the highway. “No, and if you ask me another goddamn question, I’ll break your fucking jaw." He stops the car hard enough they're whipped back in their seats, and it's the last straw for Reina who starts crying in earnest. Habit gets out of the car and goes to the passenger side, opens Vin's door, and tells him, an inch from his face, in the layered gravel voice that makes Vin freeze, “Get out of the car, _Pherkad_.”

 

Habit marches them through forest and swamp until even Reina, tucked away and dry in Vin's coat, is shivering. He hasn't said a word past an aggravated _come on_ since they left the car, and Vin is left with his hair standing on end, fighting his nerves, chilled in his wet clothes. It may be warm enough to rain, but they're soaking wet, battered by the rain from above and slogging through puddles and pine needles below. They go across sandy roads, past crumbling stone, skirting swathes of charred trees and scorched earth, to a river whose banks are at their limit, whose streams make Vin wary to come closer. Habit keeps walking to the very edge, and they have no choice except follow.

Vin stands next to Habit, looks across the narrow river at more blackened pines, and opens his coat to clean Reina’s face when the sirens go off.

Habit grabs him, digs his fingers into his arm, and says too calmly, “Hold on to her, and get in the fucking creek, Vinny.”

If Habit weren't holding him in place, he'd bolt back the way they came, but as it is, he's trapped on the banks of a cold river, and Habit says softly, close to Evan's voice, "You're both done if you don't do what I tell you." 

He knows he has precious little time to comply before Habit erupts, knows he can't do anything to change this, but he still tries to calculate his chances outrunning them both, dreams outrageously of running all the way to Baldpate. Habit squeezes his arm and jerks him out of his fantasies and towards the water. With the sirens and Reina wailing, he wades in.

It's painfully cold, even around his ankles, but he gets no time to get his breathing under control as Habit furiously waves him on. "In the middle," he yells, and Vin picks his way into the rapids.

He wades out farther, up to his chest in the water. He wants to hold Reina above it as much as possible, but the water's moving so fast. He keeps stumbling as the current pushes him, and her clothes are getting soaked. Steadying himself, he looks to Habit, catches sight of the suit out of the corner of his eye as Habit says, "Put her head under water, and keep it there."

“NO!” Vin digs his fingers into her so hard her sobs turn into squeals, and he can't unclench his hands, even as her screaming turn into gasping, wet coughs.

Habit falls into a crouch and growls, “If you don’t want her hanging in a garbage bag, you’ll do it!”

He's frozen in the water, and he’s coming closer. Vin flicks his eyes back and forth, overcome by the thought of Evan watching another daughter be murdered in front of him.

Habit shouts at him, “If you don’t kill her now, I’ll do it myself, and then I’ll put another one in you when I’m finished!”

It's not Habit's threats that get to him. It's watching him come closer that makes him move; it's the voice coming from the very back of his head reminding him _Man doesn't share_ that snaps a cord inside him.

She's half-covered under his jacket, crying and making desperate sucking sounds for air when he takes her in both hands. He looks away and pulls her under.

She's jerking in his grip, pawing at him as best she can, struggling until the very moment Man's at the edge of the river.

Too late, his flight response breaks him out of his trance, and he clutches Reina's body to his chest. Vin tries to scramble backwards out of the river, but he can't. He stumbles again and falls under the water with Reina, bleeding black.

 

Vin wakes up freezing on the linoleum floor of a bathroom and thinks, _fuck, how much wine did I drink to get like this_. He raises himself up to turn on the tap, not really expecting Habit to be merciful while he got liquored up and passed out on the floor. He falls back when the water comes on, and he finally notices that this bathroom doesn't smell like piss. His eyes glance around slowly, and he admits he is _probably_ in his own basement.

He’s howling laughing kneeling in front of the sink, struggling to breathe over how ridiculous it is for these fuckers to keep forcing him inside this bathroom. He gets back on his knees, shuts the water off, and rubs his hand down his face. When he pulls his hand back, it's covered in sticky ash. He pauses and lifts his shirt up to see pale stretch marks over his skin.

He slams his head against the cupboards and bawls even as he hears a person scream and come hurrying down the stairs. He's still sobbing, and when he gasps in air to keep crying, he hears his mom's voice say, "Vinny?"

He presses his hands over his face and moans, but it doesn't stop. She's hovering over him, saying, "Vinny? Vinny, please," until he grabs for her, grasps at her shirt, and sobs out _Mom_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Borrowed some phrasing from Ps46


	11. the olive in the arbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talking about the murder and death

She unwinds him, gets him standing, and brushes his shaggy hair away from his face. "Vinny, where have you been?"

He doesn't answer. He stares at his hands.

She stares, too, and presses her lips together. "Vinny, what happened to you?" She reaches up with her thumb to scrub the ashes away from under his eye. It's such a parental thing to do that he's struck with the force of how wrong it is for him to be here with his mom while Reina is god knows where, being pulled downstream or strung across trees.

He steps back, puts his head in his hands, and lets the shame and anger pull him under.

She follows after him and clasps his wrists in her hands. "It'll be okay, Vinny." She takes one hand and pets his hair as he cries. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. We'll get you taken care of."

 

They try to pull him back into their routine. They ask him come sit on the couch and make plans to fix this problem that's been presented to them. They bring Vin to the table to eat and ask how he plans to get readmitted to school. His mom begs him to come to mass again, and he caves. She kneels to pray at the Seven Sorrows shrine, and he can't bow his head, can’t stop looking at the round paintings arranged around her like stars. The Pietà stares through him, and he can't escape the sensation of Reina's body pressed to his chest. It sets him gasping like he’s back in the water, weeping and pounding his fists against his face. She drags him out of the church, drives him back home where he can cause a scene without embarrassing her. They try to give him time, but he doesn't have anything in him to give back.

He can't answer their questions, even when they try breaking them into small chunks, listing the names of every friend of his they knew and asking about them individually. They ask him one by one if they were the one who took him, were they the one who brought him back, where did they keep him. He doesn't have any easy or believable answers, and they get impatient with his silence.

They give up on making him normal again, and he gives up on himself. He doesn't know how to handle this falling apart. He quietly and steadily surrenders pieces of himself each time he reaches over, and she's not there. Each morning he goes downstairs without her, still forgets, and opens the refrigerator looking for applesauce or yogurt. He hasn't had to live in silence for a year, and the quiet when his parents leave becomes its own menacing presence stalking him room to room.

His mom catches him in bed crying with cold rags over his chest. Her eyes go wide, and she seems as unprepared to handle the reality of the situation as Vin is. She turns and leaves, never mentions it, and he doesn’t either. He knows he’ll never be able to talk to them about her or tell them _you were grandparents_. He submits himself to isolation, lets himself drift further away every time he looks up and remembers she's gone.

 

They leave early Friday morning for work, talking their way out the door about a Memorial Day weekend away, but he's planning on spending the days alone in a dark room, hoping to suppress the constant replay of her coughs and jerks. He wants to stay in bed and pass the time telling himself he _had to_ so she wouldn't suffer more, but there's always a voice arguing _you drowned her what's worse than you_ , and he falls back to walking in endless loops, looking to exhaust himself.

Vin's coming downstairs to wander and pace, so he doesn't have to remember walking the tiny hallway of the old place, when a powerful knocking shakes the whole house. He clings to the banister until the banging quits, and his heart stops skipping beats.

He knows who's at the door, and he's exasperated thinking about him coming to ask for more even after Vin's given him everything he's had to give. He opens the door to him and stares out over the top of his head.

Habit blows uncaring past Vin's mood. “Vinny, I haven’t seen you in months! You look like shit!”

Vin looks down at Habit now, says nothing. 

Habit huffs and heaves his arms skyward. “Don’t you want to see her?” 

He shakes his head, not believing what he's hearing. “I don’t want to see a garbage bag.”

“Why would I take you to see a fucking garbage bag,” he says, curling his lip. "You could walk in front of a mirror and see a garbage bag."

Vin sighs. “Then—what, Habit? I don’t want to see her—her body.” 

Habit grabs a fistful of his t-shirt and pulls his face close. “I’m doing you a favor. I don’t give a fuck whether you come today or not." He lets go of the material, and Vin stumbles back, but he keeps going, "If you want answers like you’ve always said you do, you’ll get in the goddamn car.”

It's not like he cares anymore if he dies—again—or if he's walking into another few years of imprisonment. There's nothing here for him anyway.

He shuts the front door and gets in the car.

 

Habit drives them back to the pine barrens, and Vin, sitting there barefoot in his pajamas, shakes the whole way. He parks the car easy this time and leads Vin down the sandy paths again, back to the river.

He wants to convince himself he's in a different place, but he can't—the thin trunks look the same in every season—but grasses fill in patches, the mountain laurel's in bloom, and it makes the forest look almost lush in the late spring sun. The river bank's covered in green, and Vin digs his banged up feet in, grateful for the rest. Habit doesn't call him stupid for walking the distance barefoot, just takes his elbow, leads him closer to the edge, and points down.

The water’s still murky, but it’s running slowly and more shallowly in the heat, and if he concentrates, he can see the back of, well, he’s not quite sure. He kneels down, leans in closer, and hears the soft cries of a child. He freezes, afraid it's the noise that means he’s nearby, but as he listens, there's only one voice, and _god_ , it sounds like Reina.

“What the fuck.” He peers closer to the water and sees— _what is it_? Like a giant eel or an enormous snake, but thicker than any he's ever seen. “What the fuck.” He looks back at Habit. “What—”

“Yeah, what the fuck, I know." He pauses to adjust his hat before telling him, "Vinny, she ate it.” 

Vin does not comprehend that sentence. 

“Do you understand me, Vinny? She ate _it_." He crouches next to Vin. "She’s a _god_.”

 

Vin lowers himself down onto his left side, like he had to ages ago when he slept with her inside him, when he labored with her, when he fed her, drowsily pressed close on the floor. He lays down on his side again and drapes his arm down to the water, lets his finger tips run along her tough skin, across the fur sprouting there, and tells his baby how much he loves her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not enough kelpies if you ask me (cryptid baby was actually inspired by some of the stories about [water babies](http://www.weirdus.com/states/utah/stories/water_babies/index.php)), but i hope you were amused for a while. Here's a [playlist](https://8tracks.com/noah_pascal/all-of-those-kings-i-ve-anointed)? Thanks for reading!


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